


You'll Never Snikt! In This Town Again

by VoidVesper



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Closeted Character, Dark Humor, Hollywood Satire, M/M, Marvel Comics (Real World), Metafiction, New York 1970s, New York City, Prostitution, Rape At Knifepoint, Sadism, Sadistic Rape, Satire, Squick, You Have Been Warned, anal rape, office politics, times square
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:25:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23160145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoidVesper/pseuds/VoidVesper
Summary: What if? -- Silver Age Marvel superheroes were like Golden Age Hollywood stars, trapped by the studio that owned them . . . and kept all their dirty secrets. A dark satiric tale of 1970s New York depravity.Read the tags. You have been warned.
Relationships: Logan/Peter Parker, Logan/Scott Summers
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	You'll Never Snikt! In This Town Again

The chair was plush and the office view sumptuous, but Logan was miserable. It takes a hell of a lot to make him hungover and that's exactly what he'd had last night, a hell of a lot. You haven't had a headache until your throbbing brain is locked inside a metal-lined skull. Between gray matter and adamantium, guess which one loses every time.

The office was orderly and precise in a way calculated to aggravate a hangover. A polished chrome and glass desk, glinting aggressively. Neatly sharpened pencils pointing up in an onyx tumbler. One of those daily tear-off calendars, the kind that anal-retentives like. August 9, 1973.

The man seated behind the desk was attempting to stare him down. Logan was amused. His bloodshot eyes didn't move but the corner of his lip crinkled. Nobody stares him down. The man behind the desk didn't return the smile. _I bet he looks like Santa Claus when he's not angry_ , Logan thought. Santa Claus with aviator glasses and a walrus moustache. Stan the Man. Excelsior.

"Logan," he sighed, "We've got a problem."

The man reached across the desk and opened a manila folder. Its creamy exterior looked bizarrely organic against the rest of the office.

Logan didn't have to ask what was in the folder. He already knew. Everyone in the room knew. All the junior executives, standing in a nervous semi-circle behind him, knew. He didn't have to look to smell the battery-acid odor of adrenaline in the air, sense the slightly audible flutter of their elevated heartbeats. They were all terrified. Definitely of him, but probably of their boss, too.

The man behind the desk took his time. He indulgently turned one sheet of paper over after another, as if examining the Magna Carta with archival gloves. A pudgy man-boy stood next to him, at attention but twitching his lip in a funny, nervous palsy. _He looks familiar_ , thought Logan, and then realized it was that kid, the one who got him the gig in the first place. He thought he was just some office boy but apparently he's got more pull here than he had imagined.

The man closed the folder and dropped it on the desk with dramatic finality.

"First off," he said, angry eyes boring into Logan, "You look like shit."

This was true. Logan could smell himself more than anyone else in the room, and that was never a good sign. His denim jacket radiated a rank beer and smoke and gutter aroma. He hadn't showered in days. Some of the company's goons had pulled him out of a Riker's Island cell not an hour before. There was a crusty smear of something organic across the front of his filthy t-shirt. He remembered a likely origin and smirked. That made his head hurt.

The man behind the desk was unamused. "Secondly," he snapped, "I have this police report. And –" he waved his hands in the air, momentarily unable to articulate the enormity of his displeasure. "I don't like it. Not one bit. Not. One. Bit." He opened the folder. "Public drunkenness. Public urination. Disorderly conduct. Assault on an officer.." He set the folder down on the desk again and enunciated the last charges with visible, choked discomfort. "Soliciting. Public lewdness." The last word was a whisper. "Deviate sexual intercourse."

“ _Jeesus, we get alla freaks in here.”_ Logan heard the whisper from across the room. He saw the game now. These people tolerated the parade of freaks at the office because that’s how they made their bread and butter. Back home they weren't any more likely to invite a mutant home for dinner, not anymore than they would -

"A fairy?" The boss man was incredulous. "That's what they tell me?" He picks up a police report. "Public lewdness? Deviate sexual intercourse? Jesus, I don't even want to think what that could be." He leaned forward, eyes hard. "Does that sound like a hero, Logan? Does that sound like the kind of face we want to put in our books? Our wholesome, family-friendly books? “See this?” He stabbed at a cover with a pointed finger. “This? That’s the Comics Code. A code of ethics. We got kids to think about. How is that going to look when little Johnny comes home from the newsstand and says ‘Gee, mom, I sure like this swell comic’ and then the parent reads in the paper about the wild time you had on Christopher Street last night?" He leaned back in his plush office chair. "I'm not prejudiced, Logan. Whatever you do, you're a consenting adult, all that. This is New York. But this is serious!" He pounded the table with his fist. "You've got to see it from our point of view!"

"Well, actually," the nervous man jumped in, "I – I think this character is – I mean, that is, I think the public is ready for a character that's not – well -"

"Chris, when I want your opinion I'll ask for it."

"Yessir, but I just think that –"

"Chris –" the man cut him off. "Did you know about this?"

"W-well, yes, but I thought that our readers are ready for a hero that's –"

"Chris." The man laid a paternalistic hand on his shoulder. "You've got to think of our readers. These books don't sell in Greenwich Village. They sell in Peoria and Little Rock and Fargo. We're writing for them. We're _casting_ –" he cast a withering glance at Logan – "for _them_." He leaned in close to the boy. "Do you _like_ your job?"

"Yessir. Very much, I do like my job."

The man smiled. "Good." He patted his shoulder and swiveled back to face Logan.

"We paid your bail. We've got connections with the Mayor's office, I've got people wrangling now to get your case dropped. This is costing me money, Logan. Money and time. I've had to pay off Jameson already to keep your name out of the Bugle. To say nothing of the Post and Times. And they're not so easily bought, believe me."

He leaned back, a pleased smile on his face. Logan stared at him, crusty eyes slitty with apathy and fatigue. The smile evaporated.

"You got anything to say?"

Logan's voice cracked with just-woke-up disuse. "Nope."

The man leaned forward. "I just spent the company's money to keep your little secret out of the papers," he hissed. "And you've got nothing to say to me?"

Logan decided he really didn't like this little man. He also decided the only thing keeping him from disemboweling him right there, all over his chrome desk and manila folder and sharp little pencils, was that his healing factor hadn't caught up to last night's alcohol intake. Yet.

 _Your little secret._ The prick. Logan had no secrets. Right around the same time he realized he was a born killer, he realized every other rule was just as meaningless. What did he care that when there's no women around, a guy's mouth feels just as fresh and wet around your cock? And who gives a shit if beer money can be got from offering it up to the right person? Once you've had your fists tangled knuckle-deep in a once-living human's steaming guts, having qualms about shoving that same fist up someone's ready and willing ass seems just as arbitrary as using the salad fork for the fish course.

“Look,” the old man leaned over the table. “You want to stay anonymous? Look outside.” Logan craned his neck to see a line of costumed wannabes, tiny as ants on the sidewalk below. Their sagging homemade costumes hugged their pathetic, pouchy bellies. Their handmade chest emblems were probably sewn on their misshapen wool knit leotards by some weak-chinned girlfriend back home. They'd try to cajole the security guard into letting them in, but it'd never work. Some industrious souls might hop a cab over to the DC building, to try their luck once more before taking a dejected subway ride back home.

“Logan, you’ve got a chance to be a star." The man interrupted his reverie. "I can tell. Only three people walked in here I can say that about. Steve Rogers. Peter Parker. And you.” He leaned back, making a sanctimonious little chapel with his fingertips. “We got a lot of people behind you, Logan. Don’t throw that away."

"Who said I wanted to be a star?" Logan growled.

"What else have you got, Logan?" The man was shouting now. "Turning tricks in Times Square? Living from one Bowery flophouse to the next? Smelling like –" he wrinkled his nose –"like the Fresh Kills landfill? How long can you keep this up? How long you want to live this life? I'm offering you adventure! Excitement! Thrills! The kind of life those poor slobs - excuse my language, they are our readers - those poor slobs out there on the sidewalk dream about! Logan –" his eyes were almost misty now -"Logan, I'm offering you a chance to be a _Super. Hero._ All you have to do is stop sucking cock! How hard can that be?"

Logan didn't say anything.

The man rocked back in his plush chair. "We’ll get you started on the next Hulk book. It’s a one shot. You'll make an appearance, you say your name – it's a start. A good one" he added, stabbing his finger into the air to make the point. "Romita's already got a costume picked out. You're gonna love it."

The phone rang. The man snapped it up. "Yeah. OK, right. Be right down." He slammed the phone down. "Danvers got herself knocked up again. This girl is ratifying Roe v. Wade all by herself. Logan!" He extended a friendly hand. Logan stared at him, but the man didn't seem to care. "We'll see you on Monday." He smiled. "Have a good weekend. Stay out of trouble."

 _If he touches me, I'll kill him_ , thought Logan. But the man had already left, his entourage trailing behind. Logan was left alone.

The pudgy man stumbled nervously towards him. "Uh, Mr. Logan, I – I just want you to know . . ." He stammered, then caught himself. "I really want you to think about what Mr. Lee is offering. I know it doesn't sound like it right now, but really, it's – it's the opportunity of a lifetime. And – and I just want you to know I'm behind you. Your secret is safe with me. If you do decide to take this job – and I really hope you do – I want you to know we – we can work something out about what stays in the books and what we'll just ignore." He blushed, but went on. "After all, it's not _what_ you do – it's what makes it into the funny papers, right?" He gave a nervous, choked laugh. "So – so just think about it." He blinked at the floor, then darted out the door.

The room was empty. Logan's head was finally clearing. He took a deep breath. The jackhammer fog inside his head was lifting but he could use a cold drink for his cottonmouth. He stepped into the hall and pressed the button for the elevator.

The doors _pinged_ open and Logan stepped in. There was another guy in the elevator. Dark hair, a foot shorter than Logan. Some high school bookworm, but Logan noticed the unusual solidity of his forearms. Probably on the swim team, he thought. The camera hanging around his neck rose and fell slightly with his breath.

The kid smiled. Dimples carved into his cheeks. He motioned towards the camera around his neck. "Second job," he grinned sheepishly. There were little vaccination-scar divots on the soft insides of his wrists.

"Hmmm." Logan smirked.

They rode down in silence. Logan could feel eyes on the back of his neck. He flicked a glance. Sure enough, the kid tucked his head down, smiled at him again with a bashful, _you caught me_ grin. Blue eyes. Nice.

"So . . ." Logan said, "What's your name, kid?"

"Peter."

Then –

"You ever fuck a guy my age?"

\------

The kid was saying something, but Logan could hardly understand him. No problems there - the ability to enunciate is not the hallmark of a good blow job, for either party involved. Sharp mutant hearing only brought semi-articulate moans into crystal-clear indecipherability. _Looks like I'm doing something right_ , Logan smirked to himself. One hour ago he'd been persona non grata at the Marvel headquarters. He'd stepped into the elevator intending to catch the next train out of town, right after he'd pissed on the building, when this Cub Scout cornered him. Next thing you know he's in the bedroom of some borough rowhouse repaying a favor he'd received minutes before. What's-his-name – was it Peter?-- clutched onto Logan's ears, tight. He was about to tell him _they ain't handles, kid_ when the kid's balls jerked up tight into his body and the bleachy smell of fresh cum washed up into Logan's nose nanoseconds before the spooge hit the roof of his mouth.

"Spit. Spit." the kid gasped. _I ain't never spit in my life_ , Logan was about to say, but when he flexed his jaws to speak they were glued together. A dense clot of what felt like cotton candy was raveling into rigid strands in his mouth, wrapping around his teeth and swelling up against his soft palate like a rubber band ball gone on the attack. What the fuck?

"I'm sorry," the kid gasped. He was sitting up, wedged in the corner of his bed, leaning against crumbling Camaro posters on his bedroom wall, fly open and t-shirt lifted, dick still slick with saliva. "Just work it around in your mouth. It'll dissolve."

Logan snapped his jaws and gagged and tried to thrash his tongue through the thick mozzarella strands. Ugh, bleach is one thing but this tasted beyond nasty. Whatever it was, it was curing fast into some other substance. _Fuck this_ , he thought. He pried his jaws open, swept a gob of the elastic out of his mouth and flicked it on the floor. The spaghetti tangle of mother-of-pearl ooze bounced a few times, dragging gossamer threads against the grimy stalks of shag rug and slackened, relaxing into the nap like a lump of pearlescent Silly Putty. Little waffle-tread striations coasted over its surface before it dissolved.

"You need to see a doctor, kid?" Logan snarled. He wiped his mouth off on the back of his hand. Little shreds of gossamer strung between his lips and fingers.

"No, that's just what it does now. I should have said something."

"Yeah, you should have." The bitter taste was fading. He swallowed the last shreds and shuddered. "Last one you're getting from me."

The kid opened his mouth to speak but sudden shock wrote itself over his face. He tumbled off the bed, frantically zipping up. "Hide!" he whispered hoarsely. Logan spun around to the closed bedroom door. His nostrils flared, searching the air for rogue molecules signaling danger – nothing. He'd brush it off if the kid's expression wasn't so panicked and his heart wasn't beating like an espresso-fueled hummingbird's wings. Claws leapt _SNIKT!_ from between knuckles but Peter pushed him down. "No, no, quick, under the bed!"

"What, kid?" he growled.

"Shhhh . . ." Peter hissed and then the stairs creaked outside. Logan jumped up and pressed himself to the flat of the wall behind the door, ears cocked, claws at the ready. The kid spun around – _damn, he's quick_ , thought Logan – and slammed a biology textbook open on the desk, assuming a position of casual study.

The doorknob trembled.

The door swung open.

"I brought you cookies." a frail voice warbled. Logan felt the doddering footsteps on the floor inches away from his own feet, swaying in time to the musical _clink-a-clink_ of china clicking on a tray. Through the crack of the doorjamb he could see a stooped chintz-clothed back and a dusting of white hair. He inhaled sharply – _baby powder, black pepper, menopause_ \- and pressed his body closer to the wall. "I'm sorry dinner's going to be late. I thought you might need a snack."

Logan saw Peter's eyes twinkle in double-entendre before melting into relaxed delight. "Oh, thanks, Aunt May." He exhaled shakily.

"You've got a lot of work, I see."

"Yeah. Yeah, finals on Monday."

"Well." She patted his hair. "Don't work too hard." She shuffled out of the room and closed the door.

Peter exhaled a deep sigh of relief. Logan shot him a glare.

"My aunt." Peter said. "I live with her."

"No shit."

"She doesn't know. I try to keep my private life private."

"It sells more books, huh?"

Peter's brow furrowed in confusion. Then he laughed. "No, she doesn’t know about _Spiderman_."

Logan jerked a thumb towards the corner behind the door. "Then what was all that for?"

Peter smiled coyly. "You're too old for me. I'd get in trouble."

"Peter?" the voice warbled up from the ground floor. "Tell your friend he's welcome to stay for dinner."

Logan shot a glance at the tray. Two glasses of milk, two plates of oatmeal cookies.

Peter paused before answering. "Thanks, he's got school tomorrow."

"Well, make sure to clean up the rug before he goes. I'm an old lady, I can't be on my hands and knees after every time you entertain a young man in your room."

"Okay . . ." It was hard to tell by the light of the desk lamp, but Logan was pretty sure the kid blushed a little.

Logan stood up. He scooped his jacket off the floor and threw it over his shoulders. God, it reeked.

Peter looked up. "Where are you going?" he asked.

Logan shrugged. "Out. We're done here, right?"

Peter shrugged and reached for a cookie. "I guess so. But – I dunno, you can stay. I'm not kicking you out or anything." He snapped the cookie in half. An intoxicating brown sugar and butter perfume wafted out like honeysuckle. Logan's salivary glands gave a little shudder.

Peter saw him staring. "Go ahead. Help yourself."

Logan felt a little foolish - _aw_ _cripes, since when do I eat milk and cookies?_ but Aunt May's culinary skill won him over. Peter sat at the desk and watched as Logan devoured the tray's contents.

"Did you eat today?" he asked, a little bemused.

"No." Logan growled through a mouthful of oatmeal cookie. He slugged down a glass of milk.

"Where do you live?'

"None of your business."

"OK." Peter started to reach for a cookie but thought better of it. "When do you start for the company?"

Logan looked up. "Who said I work for the company?"

Peter shrugged. "You were in the elevator. And you've got those blades in your hands. I figured - hey, are you a villain? Are we doing a team-up or something? I thought they told me something about a team-up in September."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I don't know what they're talking about half the time, either." He sighed and leaned back in his chair. "You'd better think long and hard about joining the company. It's a great experience but it's murder on your personal life. Like, right now, I've got several papers due at Empire. Plus my freelance job at the Bugle. All while I'm still supposed to be fighting crime. But they don't care, they still want to put me on two team-ups every month in addition to my regular book. And now they're talking about a second title. Plus endorsements and licensing." He rubbed his face with his hands. "I don't know how I'm going to fit all this in."

"Just tell them no."

Peter shook his head. "I gotta keep this place for my Aunt May. I'm the only breadwinner now."

Logan's ears perked up. "What, the money's that good?"

"It's not the books. If they can't pay Ditko or Kirby what he's worth, how are they going to pay me? It's my side business that keeps this place. "

Logan stopped chewing. He looked around the room. "Kid, I don't have any money."

Peter waved his hand. " I'm not . . . no . . . you don't have to pay me. Only the other guys do. Captain America. Mr. Fantastic. Silver Surfer. You know, the bigshots." He sighed and stretched his arms behind his head. "I'm the youngest guy there. Everyone wants 'the jock'". He made derisive quote marks with his fingers. "Like I could play a sport to save my life. If I was still a weakling biology major none of them would care." He poked at a few crumbs on the desk. "You'd be amazed at the complexes these guys have. Everyone's so touchy about their image. "I need someone really straight-acting". Yeah, because you run around in tights all week." He sighed. "I guess I'm lucky, though. I hear the guys at DC have it really rough. It's like a twenty-four hour gang bang over there. Why do you think they keep going through so many Robins?"

"So quit the day job."

Peter shuddered. "No way. You ever seen a superhero out of book? It's a sad sight. I remember the day they stopped the X-Men's book. Everyone promised to keep in touch. Then you just drop off the face of the earth. I haven't heard or seen any of them since. Besides, the company pretty much owns me. I wasn't kidding, think long and hard about joining. I was probably too young when they came to me. But we needed the money. And I didn't know what else I was going to do with this." He flicked his wrist open, sticking his index and pinky out like horns. A little spurt of flabby netting sputtered out of the dimple on his wrist. "Damn." He grinned. "I'm still tapped out. I'll show you later."

"Don't make me sick, kid."

"Don't worry, it's not cum. All my proteins ravel up now. Even my blood clots in web shapes, if you look closely. It's pretty cool. I've written a paper about it." His face darkened with regret. "But I can't use it for my thesis. Just another thing I've got to keep quiet about." He stared into space.

Logan finished the last morsel of cookie. He stood up. "There another way out of here?"

Peter pointed to the window. "We're only one floor up."

"Good." He unlatched the frame and slid it up with a creak. The cool night air breezed into the bedroom.

"See you around, I guess." Peter said.

"Yeah, maybe." Logan said. He leapt silently to the ground below and crept into the night.

\----

The smell hit him first. It was a hot night and the theater had been cooking. All the effluvia and aromas of 20 years' worth of lowlife and mayhem crushed into the once-burgundy carpet now simmered in the August heat like roadkill stew in a crock pot. Logan got the full whiff when he stepped in the theater's door. The heavy salty smell of popcorn coasting on the rancid, rich bloom of fake butter. The spoiled vanilla-honeysuckle tang of cola syrup spilled on carpet and left to evaporate into a sticky, overripe stain. The ammonia smell of piss, uniform to human noses but colored with a spectrum of hormones and beverages and bacterial flora to Logan's keen nostrils. The cumin-brine scent of overheated, unshowered bodies. A sticky rank lacquer of decay clung to every surface. Logan smelled blood spilled, liquid testimonies of lobby knifings and muggings and blows to the face. Atomic particles of murder kicked up by every scuff his cowboy boots made on the trampled, forlorn carpet. And floating low, clinging to the stained walls and scuffed floors and decaying mahogany trim, threaded through every molecule of air like the marbling in a steak, was the low, humid, sweaty musk smell of men fucking. Something about that combination, that sex and death smell, got Logan juiced up. He shivered as his balls tightened.

It was early in the evening. Logan could tell because the owner hadn't yet put on his good Qiana shirt. The big greaseball was standing behind the concession stand in his coffee-stained undershirt, yelling into the phone over the machine gun fire of fiercely popping popcorn. Little flecks of spittle formed on his chapped and rubbery lips and clung to his spider legs moustache. A bored Puerto Rican girl with spindly silver hoop earrings kneaded a huge wad of bubble gum between her jaws and listlessly separated a stack of fliers into two piles.

"Listen, you little prick, either I see the residuals on the Damiano pic or the take's coming out of your ass. Oh, you like that, huh? Oh yeah? Well, I want to see you tell him that to his face!" The owner saw Logan out of the corner of his eye and waved him in. Logan almost made it past the theater threshold before the owner leaned over the counter, covering the mouthpiece with a meaty palm.

"Tonight. I get a piece of tonight." he hissed at Logan before turning back to his telephone argument. Logan grabbed his wrist. The owner's head snapped away from the phone in surprise.

Logan got nose-to-nose with the owner. "You get a piece of nothing," he snarled.

The owner looked at Logan's wrist wrapped tight around the doughy flesh of his wrist. "Then don't come in," he said. "I got plenty of guys in there already. They'll work and you won't. They'll cover their admission. You got three bucks?"

It burned Logan to know he didn't even have the twenty cents to cover a small box of Jujubes.

The owner yanked his hand away. "I didn't think so." He started back to the phone but did a quick return of Logan's icy glare. "Nice." he said, twirling a fat finger around his head. "You look like you got devil horns. That's good. The Jersey boys will like that."

"Go fuck yourself." Logan muttered.

"There's no money in that," he called out to Logan's departing back.

The dark inside the theater was deep and solid and Logan relaxed in its velvet embrace. His pupils relaxed in near audible relief at the swallowing darkness and he did a quick scan of the room. The owner was right. It was too early for the theater to be full, but the other hustlers had homesteaded their seats in anticipation. They turned their faces expectantly at the sign of someone coming in but immediately slunk down in their seats when they saw who it was. They knew Logan was here for the same reason they were. No money to be made of off him.

Logan recognized faces immediately. There was Harry, that sniveling little wraith with the kinky red persian-lamb-coat hair. The kid kept twitching in his seat and running his finger under his nose. Even in the theater's low light Logan could see the purple tracks dotting his pasty arms. That kid's going to snap someday, he thought to himself, and slunk down in a seat where he could keep an eye on him.

The screen was filled with some Swedish trash extravaganza. He knew the drill. Some go-go music, a couple diagrams of the pelvis, and here we go. Looks like he'd come in at just the right time. Some tired bitch with smudged eyeliner and dog-colored hair was splayed out like a starfish in some Stockholm motel. Pretty soon her cunt would get attacked by any number of stinking Euro-cocks as a even-keeled narrator would spin some pseudoscientific profundity. Logan was bored. You see enough of these "educational" films and the line between hard core porn and open heart surgery gets blurred pretty fast.

Logan tilted his seat back and narrowed his eyes to slits. Just resting, he told himself. But he felt a deep sadness well up in him. Something about that kid he had just left at that house in Queens . . . his clean, soft flesh, and his showered, scrubbed, fabric softener smell and a dick that tasted like milk and honey. OK, the kid's spooge did congeal into a throat-blocking, glue-tasting mouthful of webbing that nearly choked him, but so what? Jumping out the kid's window and escaping into the night like a sneaky high schooler gave him a surge of, I dunno . . . I guess that was happiness. Hard to tell when you haven't felt it in a while. Victor Creed would be laughing himself into an aneurysm right about know if he knew that all it took was some comfort and kindness and a plate of warm cookies to tame the mighty Wolverine. The theater with its tattered ceiling and crusty seats looked uglier than it had ever looked before. He shook his head and wished he was drunker, right now, by any degree.

A chair in the aisle creaked and Logan bolted awake. He must have dropped off. How long? He flicked his eyes at the screen. Some Afro chick with thumbtack tits was firing a gun at a retreating pimp. Jesus, he was dead tired. How long could he keep this up? Get drunk, get fucked, pass out, wake up. Repeat as necessary. Even with his healing factor this lifestyle was making a dent in his well-being. He felt like he'd aged a decade in the past . . . well, decade. Which was too much for a guy like him.

He gave a quick flick around the room. No one had got the drop on him while he was passed out. Good. Some drunk had sat down in Logan's row. That was what had made the creaking noise. He could smell the alcohol radiating from every one of the guy's pores, even from a whole row away. Logan eyed him coolly from out of the corner of one eye.

The guy was dizzy drunk. He settled himself in the seat with the exaggerated care of someone ashamed to be so hammered, someone afraid to be caught by mom. Logan caught him exhaling - probably settling the whirlies in his stomach. He still hadn't taken his sunglasses off. Probably forgot he still had them on.

Logan pegged the type right away. One of those straight guys who calls in sick first. Then goes to a bar. Then gets a little drunk. Then gets a little too drunk. Then gets one more drink to convince himself he was just coming here to watch the flicks. Logan cracked his knuckles and thrashed his tongue around his jaw. He could almost taste the money.

He got up, sliding down several seats, settling in the seat next to the drunk with panther-like grace. The drunk looked up at him, terror flitting quick across his face. Jesus, much younger than he’d thought. Probably not even 25 yet. Jaw like a man, full kissable lips trembling like a little boy’s. Logan couldn't see his eyes behind his red-tinted sunglasses. Hair cut short and respectable. Under the beer Logan could smell the soft musky scent of a body that's postponed a shower a few extra hours.

Logan didn't say anything. He stared at the kid with canny, measuring eyes. The kid swallowed hard, then turned his attention back to the movie. Logan saw the kid's hand gripping the armrest, wrist pressed against the metal. He could hear his racing pulse gently jarring the metal claws housed in his forearms, sending fluttering high frequency pings into the air.

"Hi there." Logan said.

The kid looked at him, then swallowed hard and stared down at his belt buckle. "Hi," he said, practically swallowing the tiny word in a nervous, shaky exhale. Logan felt the high frequency pings break into a sprint.

The kid wasn't making eye contact. He was staring straight ahead, feigning interest in the bullshit on-screen. Logan sized the situation up. This kid was drunk, but not enough. He was going to want to be sweet-talked and cajoled into doing whatever he wanted to do in the first place. Probably didn't want any more than "you show me yours, I'll show you mine", but it would take 15 minutes of bullshit just to get there. It was too early in the night to bother. Logan got up.

"Wait." A hand closed around Logan's wrist. Logan suppressed the momentary instinct to pull free. The hand was warm, and, for such a pretty boy, fairly calloused, the hands of a mechanic or day laborer, strong and with a steady grip. Bigger than Logan would have guessed. I know what that means, he smirked to himself. He slid back down in his seat.

The kid was all talk now. "I want . . ." he gulped, and then took in a shaky breath. "I - I don't want to touch you."

"Fine" Logan said.

"Maybe I can . . . watch you," he whispered, and ducked his head. "And then you can watch me."

Sometimes Logan wished there was somewhere he could place bets on tricks.

Logan smirked to himself and reached down to his belt buckle. His cock gave a little Pavlovian jump with the sound of the western buckle unclicking. Some guys it took a little to get worked up over, but this kid was going to be easy. He was good looking, he was young, and he was a pushover. The kind you could slap around a little, whether he asked for it or not. The thought of violence gave Logan a jolt of pleasure. He could already feel the heat in his groin, the strain of tumescent flesh against denim. The tinny grind of the tracks of his zipper was barely heard by human ears against the explosive soundtrack. Same for the kid's barely audible gasp. _So take a look, kid,_ Logan thought to himself. _You like what you see?_

He did. Logan could tell by the unconscious parting of his lips as his ruby sunglass-clad eyes darted over to where Logan's cock sprouted from the slit of his fly. How the kid's thumb unconsciously stroked the seam of his own zipper. Logan licked his first three fingers and dragged them up the underside of his uncut cock. A sweet sticky haze flooded his brain. Mouth on cock was fine, ass on cock was even better . . . but what he really loved, what gave him the most pleasure, was eyes on cock. Dragging it out into the air, feeling cool air currents on hot blood-engorged flesh, knowing that someone was watching his hands stroke the tingling flesh, got him harder than anything.

The kid's eyes didn't move from Logan's crotch. As if in a trance, his hands floated down to his own zipper, slowly opening his fly, dipping big hands in under the waistband of his clean white underwear. Logan got a whiff of laundry soap and musk as the kid drew out his already hard cock. The kid was shy, but eyes attuned to night vision could see what he hid in the shadow made by the seat in front. He was hung, no doubt about that.

But he wasn't sharing. The kid leaned over against the seat in front, jerked a few times and collapsed. Snapping back to reality he quickly wiped his hand against his jeans and bolted from his seat toward the door, zipping up so quick Logan thought he was going to circumcise himself all over again.

Logan quick buttoned his own fly and stormed out after him. He flew out the door quickly enough to see the kid ducking into the bathroom. Logan followed, taking big booted strides across the carpet, banging the door open with a boom.

The kid was standing over the sink, scrubbing his hands under water hot enough to steam the cracked mirror in front. Logan stood behind him.

"You owe me money." he growled.

"I don't owe you anything." The kid didn't even look up. He was wringing his hands raw under the scalding water. "You didn't do anything."

"You owe me money," Logan repeated more deliberately, taking a step closer to the kid's back. The kid stopped washing and waited. Logan didn't even see it coming. The kid reared back and plowed into him in a football tackle that caught him right under the ribs and knocked the air out of his lungs. The kid was strong and fast but not fast enough. Logan snagged him by the collar before he could make it to the door. He yanked him around and stared into that choirboy face shielded by ruby sunglasses. Logan hesitated a moment.

Then he punched. God, that felt good. He felt the kid's babyface jaw collapse under his adamantium knuckles. How you like that, kid? he thought. He punched again. That's for stiffing me. And again. The kid dropped to his knees. That's for leaving me hard. He punched again, driving the kid's face to the floor. The kid coughed and spat a red splatter onto the dirty tile. The adrenalined blood sang through Logan's body, as if every muscle snapped to attention. He dragged his fingers through the kid's silky hair and grabbed a handful of scalp, pulling the kid's bloodied face closer to his belt. With the other hand he undid his buckle -

PZOW -

There was a sudden atom bomb burst of red light and Logan felt like an elephant just kneed him in the solar plexus. He rocketed across the room, hitting the bathroom wall with such force the crumbling tile smashed into dust and airborne ceramic shards. The kid was getting up from his knees, replacing the sunglasses over his eyes. Logan scrambled to his feet when the kid squinted and

PZOW -

again the blinding red light and Logan's head snapped back so fast the force would have decapitated a normal man. He thudded to the ground, eyes blinded and head throbbing with indescribable searing pain.

The kid would have made it to the door if that hadn't hurt so damn much. There's just something about being pissed off that put diesel in Logan's tank. Head throbbing, he sprung up off the ground and grabbed the kid. Logan was furious now. He spun the kid around to face the urinals. Grabbing his hair, he smashed his face into the wall. The glasses went flying as the kid yelped and struggled, trying to save himself, screwing his eyes shut tight like a kid trying to escape a scary movie. Logan hissed into his ear.

"You like that?" he hissed.

Grabbing him from behind by the collar, he dragged the kid into a stall. The toilet was filthy. Logan didn't care. He pushed the kid's bloodied face up against the stained porcelain. Drips of blood slid down the wet inside of the bowl and exploded into underwater flowers. That wet iron smell got Logan hard. Almost as hard as the kid's sniveling.

"You shut up." he growled. _SNIKT_ he unsheathed his claws and pressed the blade tips up against the tender flesh of the kid's neck, right behind the ear. Pinpricks of blood glistened against the blade. "You owe me," he said.

He yanked down the kid's pants, right beneath his ass. Somebody eats their Wheaties, thought Logan. The kid was young and healthy, his ass perfect and tight, butterfly-shaped with deep hollows along his hips. He looked so perfect, so pathetic and exposed, the tan rough skin underneath his balls quivering in the cold air.

Logan unzipped quickly and drove his cock up against the kid's asshole. The kid flinched and Logan jabbed his claws up against his soft neck once more, just to let him know he meant business. "Don't try anything," he growled. The way the kid's neck went slack and clammy under his hands let Logan know he was listening. The rough pucker of his asshole, the warm crack of his trembling ass felt good against Logan's cock. This prick has made me work harder for less payback than anyone has in months, thought Logan. And I'm going to make him suffer.

Without a courtesy spit, he pressed the tip of his cock against the kid's ass. The kid wasn't giving an inch - as soon as he felt the pressure he clenched up and squirmed. Logan grabbed his hair and gave his head a quick smash against the toilet bowl. He could feel the suppressed whimper tremble in the kid's lungs, feel his defeated buttocks unclench while his hands stayed tight against the floor.

This was the moment Logan lived for. It was the same in a fight - he loved that smell that invaded the air, the scent of pure fear rising from his opponent's skin, that acrid tang that a body only gives off when it knows it is moments from death. He breathed deep and pushed hard. The kid yelped when Logan's cock cleaved the kid's virgin asshole - hot, sweet, that deep drag, those clenching spasms, the choked cries echoing off filthy porcelain. He liked it when they fought. Every struggle, every futile grasp at freedom jounced tightly against his thrusting cock. That in, out, in, out, like a saw blade cleaving flesh, the tight wet dark sweet space, the feel of that perfect ass and the sight of his cock making the peekaboo desecration. Slowly he slid his claws back under his skin. The slithering rip of pain that accompanied their sheathing went over the hot coruscations on his cock like salty on sweet.

He grabbed the kid's tight shoulders, his fingers digging into the terror-clenched muscles, and, leaning forward dug into him with his cock. "Don't move," he gasped. The kid was beaten, totally defeated. When Logan slid his hands away from his shoulders, down his torso to grab onto the hard bones at the top of his hips, he didn't even try to squirm. Logan clenched the kid's muscled hips and pounded him fast. One, two, three strokes and it was over, the sunburst explosion of endorphins in his brain bursting as he flooded the kid's ass with hot cum.

Logan caught his breath, savoring the last straggler spasms against the kid's abused insides. He swallowed hard, pulled out, and stood up. The kid didn't even move. Logan looked down - the kid's blood and shit was streaked across the hem of his white t-shirt. He tucked the soiled edge into his jeans. The thrill of the trophy against his skin sent a charge through him again. He zipped up, gave the kid one more vicious kick in the ribs, and strode out.

The owner was standing behind the counter as Logan opened the door. "You fucker!" he yelled. "What the hell is going on in there? I oughta - UYGHHHHH!!" Logan's claws swiftly snaked in and out of the owner's soft belly. He dropped to his knees, stunned, awareness spreading over his face as blood from his wounds bloomed in spreading inkblots over his dirty cotton undershirt. He toppled forward, stunned, onto the filthy carpet.

"That's the last time I work here," Logan snarled, and meant it. He stepped soundlessly over him, out the door and into the Times Square night.


End file.
